


Beyond the Bliss of Dreams

by Katbelle



Series: learn me hard, learn me right [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Author is sorry not sorry, Character Death Fix, Dragging out issues of the past twenty years, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Fluff and Angst, Movie/Brick Fusion, Multi, Stargazing, These things happen only to Marius, This is a very not-happy piece, This was supposed to be funny and it's not, Wine was a bad idea whoops need more wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, Marius was aware of the mistake he had made. He should have stayed at home, with his wife. He should have found some other friends to drink with, but all his other friends were dead. They had drunk too much. It didn't matter, in the end, because he was still not drunk enough to face what followed next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the wine goes in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drcalvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/gifts).



> I--I have no excuse. No excuse for anything, least of all why this is so late in coming. I didn't forget, and it wasn't even the May pre-exam exam session. This was written for one of three prompts given to me by [drcalvin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin); I gotta say, those were three most difficult prompts I've ever seen and I have written some truly bizarre stuff in my career.
> 
> This is part 1 of 2, with an epilogue/wrap-up to follow. This most definitely is not what you expected and I'm sorry for that. I have scratched this fic six times and six times I have started writing it all over again, and it's still not satisfying enough. I tried. I'm sorry.

**Beyond the Bliss of Dreams**

In retrospect, Marius was aware of the mistake he had made. He should have stayed in his own home, in his own rooms, with his own wife; but the joy he had been feeling then, ah, the _joy_!, it was not something easily contained, it was not something one could just take a step from. Marius was happy and he had wanted everyone, the whole world, to know.

He had received a bottle of expensive liqueur from his grandfather and a few snickered remarks from his cousin and a smile from his aunt; that was not enough, that was not _nearly_ enough. He wanted to step out onto a balcony and shout his news to the whole of Paris, so that everyone could feel a fraction of that happiness that was bubbling inside of him. He did not do that. It would not be proper, a man of his position, to be disturbing the peace so--No, not proper at all.

The problem was that Marius had no friends. All of his friends were dead. The only person in Paris that Marius stayed in friendly relations with was his own father-in-law; by all means, a father-in-law should be a splendid candidate for sharing Marius' happiness and Marius' alcohol. He should be a good companion and a good influence — especially a father-in-law as wonderful as Monsieur Valjean, a man so close to sainthood as any man could get — a person to share a laugh and a drink with, a person who would then come with Marius back to his house and, once there, would comment warmly on the source of Marius' uncontainable joy, would say that she looked as angelic as Cosette but maybe she had Marius' brow. She clearly had Marius' hair, if the brown dusting on her head was any indication. Perhaps that would earn a comment as well.

That was the reasoning behind Marius' journey to Rue de l'Homme-Armé no. 7 so late on a mid-October night. Marius' wife had just given birth and Marius was feeling more elated than he did in years. He felt the need to share his joy and could not wait till morning, like his aunt suggested. Besides, he was fairly sure Monsieur Valjean would not appreciate not being informed immediately; he came to Paris almost a month ago at Cosette's request and swore to stay at least until Cosette's baby was born. He needed to know and, more importantly, he had the right to know. Marius was not cruel or an ingrate to deny him that; that was precisely why he had called a carriage and entered it, clutching a bottle of Chartreuse, and asked to be taken to his father-in-law's residence. Once there, he stumbled slightly on his way up the stairs — perhaps he should not have taken that drink to calm his nerves after all, it did calm him but made him more giddy and less coordinated than usual — before rattling his fist against the door. He had to double-check if he knocked on the right door; it was the right door and his father-in-law soon opened it.

It was late at night when Marius found himself on his father-in-law's doorstep and it showed in Monsieur Valjean's attire: he wore just trousers and a simple shirt, not even buttoned properly. Those were the clothes of a man ready to retire for the night and, for a moment, Marius felt like he was intruding. But that was just a fleeting thought that was forgotten as soon as it emerged, and Marius grinned at Monsieur Valjean's raised brows. He lifted up the hand in which he still clutched the bottle of liqueur and shook it. Somehow he managed not to drop it.

"We shall drink tonight," he announced loudly and moved to walk past Monsieur Valjean and inside the house. Monsieur Valjean first frowned, then grimaced as if Marius' presence was a great inconvenience, as if Marius was interrupting him. At this hour? At this hour there was nothing Marius could be interrupting him in, what could have Monsieur Valjean been doing at this ungodly--

"Who was tha--t."

 _Oh._ The hand holding the bottle's neck dropped gracelessly down and Marius gaped at the Inspector. That was interesting; not a development in today's tale that Marius expected when setting out to come here, but at the same time Marius could not in all honesty say that he was particularly surprised at the Inspector's presence in Monsieur Valjean's house.

The Inspector, for his part, did not gape back; au contraire, he squinted and folded his arms over his chest. "Monsieur Pontmercy," he said in a low voice that curled around the honorific as if it were a foul curse.

" _Bonsoir_ ," Marius greeted him warmly. Tonight nothing could ruin his good spirits and, in the absence of real friends, any company would do. He shook the bottle once again, drawing the men's attention to it. "I brought gifts."

The Inspector exchanged quick looks with Monsieur Valjean, who cleared his throat and asked, "And what is the occasion?"

The occasion. Marius grinned once more. The occasion, yes, the grandest happening of Marius' life. His grandfather might have called him sentimental and romantic over such musings, but — in Marius' humble opinion — this was his greatest achievement. No matter what he will do in the future, no matter what posts or positions or titles he will held, nothing will ever surpass this, this one perfect moment.

"The birth of my daughter," he said proudly. He observed as Monsieur Valjean's mild and badly masked annoyance gave way to a look of astonishment and then a shocked happiness. He made an aborted move to maybe put a hand on Marius' shoulder or to pat him on the back or maybe to even hug him. Behind him, in the doorway to what was a bedroom if Marius' memory served, the Inspector remained unmoved. Perhaps the pensive look on his face was new, but Marius could not be sure.

"I'll bring glasses," he murmured and retreated to look for them while Monsieur Valjean beckoned Marius into the dining-room.

~***~

None of them was a good drinker. That came as a surprise for Marius always assumed that his father-in-law's extraordinary strength included a strong head; but no, the Chartreuse cheered him up as quickly as it did Marius. Even the Inspector drank with them — not entirely happy with that at first, but it was unbecoming not to celebrate the birth of a dear friend's granddaughter, so he caved and allowed Marius to pour the green liquid into his glass, once and again and again.

He was in Paris on official business at the prefecture, Monsieur Valjean said as he hastened to provide an explanation for the Inspector's presence in the house. After all, he reasoned, it would be unreasonable to rent a room or stay at an inn if there was a friend in Paris, lodging not ten minutes away from the prefecture's buildings. Had Marius been more drunk at the time that explanation was given than he truly was, he might have come up with an answer to that. He might have said that he needs no explanations for the little looks Monsieur Valjean risks in the Inspector's direction tell him everything he has to know. He might have said that he had seen such looks once already, and that he knows what they mean. He might have said, with a small sad smile on his lips, that those were the looks of a man who was seeing his everything. Strangely — or perhaps not, perhaps this was the only good association — they reminded him of Grantaire. 

Alas, he was not so drunk yet so he said nothing of the sort, he poured the drinks and talked about his baby daughter's blue eyes and brown hair and tiny pink toes. When the bottle of Chartreuse was finally emptied, Monsieur Valjean brought and opened another one filled with good wine and the talking continued. At some point Marius asked about the Inspector's affairs in Paris and the topic suddenly changed, to Marius' work, to the police. Inspector Javert — whom Marius held in high regard ever since first meeting him, even if the man filled him with dread more often than not — turned to be a good conversationalist when relaxed; he drummed his fingers on the surface of the table and he scoffed at Marius less than usual. After half an hour of drinking and talking, Marius was deeply impressed by his ideas for the future of the justice and prison systems. After an hour, Marius loved him like a father. 

At the very last someone who, though drunkenly, appreciated his terrible humour.

"Was the burglar caught?"

"Oh, yes," Marius nodded. The case half of Paris lived for weeks, a string of burglaries and no name to attach them to. It kept the police on their toes and the bourgeois in fear for their wealth. "He was apprehended at last. This time he failed to find a window of opportunity for himself."

The corners of the Inspector's mouth uplifted in a smile that was almost predatory and not a little bit terrifying. It was not a handsome smile and Marius thought that the world was deprived of nothing when the Inspector refrained from showing his amusement. Monsieur Valjean, however, would have surely disagreed with that notion; now and again he glanced over at the man seated on his left with a peculiar gentleness in his eyes, a soft expression of a man basking in glory. Well. Marius wondered if he too wore that expression when talking about his Cosette — if so, he found that he could no longer fault Enjolras for being as irritated with him as he oft was.

"Have you thought of a name already?" Monsieur Valjean asked and it took Marius a minute to notice the change of subject. He meant the baby, he was asking about the name for the baby.

"Yes," Marius admitted bashfully, feeling a blush work its way up his neck. It was Cosette's idea and they have chosen this name at her insistence. They talked about baby names a lot in these last months of her pregnancy; Marius suggested Fantine, in the honour of his wife's brave mother, while Cosette hinted at the names of his father or his fallen friends. Marius had cringed at that idea and Cosette seemed unhappy with it as well. In the end, they agreed upon one thing: they did not want their children to carry the names of dead people.

"Well? What is it?" the Inspector pressed when Marius did not continue. Marius felt embarrassment flood him. It was ridiculous, to be embarrassed about this. It was a perfectly good name. It meant something, to them.

"Madeleine," he said quietly. Then he cleared his throat and repeated, louder, "Madeleine. We named her Madeleine."

Cosette wanted it and Marius still knew not how to say 'no' to his wife — to deny her anything seemed impossible and ungrateful, for she was the sun of his existence, his heart and soul and everything. When a few months ago Cosette had said that she wished to visit Montreuil-sur-Mer, he said 'yes', he had them packed, he prepared them for the trip. Once there, he walked with his wife the streets of a little town that looked nothing like what his father-in-law sometimes recalled. They had stayed for a week there, a week during which Cosette had learnt as much as was possible about her mother, her Papa and even about herself.

"Madeleine," the Inspector said slowly. Like he was not sure he approved.

Marius huffed. "It is a perfectly good name!"

"Of course it is," the Inspector agreed almost too eagerly and looked over at Monsieur Valjean. The Inspector's shoulders shook and Monsieur Valjean's nostrils flared, and they were both laughing in no time at all. If Marius though the Inspector's smile terrifying, there were no good words to describe the effect his laugh had. A hyena that he once saw on a trip to Ménagerie du Jardin came to mind. There, right there was another thing the world could do without.

Marius could understand why Monsieur Valjean was laughing, but could not decipher the source of the Inspector's amusement. Perhaps the man was laughing at him. That was a troubling thought; why would a man he loved like a father mock him so?

"I do not understand what messieurs find so funny," he grumbled and pouted, and poured more wine for everyone. Laugh soon died out to giggles and that was most horrifying. 

"Madeleine was the name of the mayor of M-sur-M," the Inspector said and he ran a finger over the edge of his glass before taking it in his hand and sipping the wine. Marius nodded. He knew that already, that was partially the reason he and Cosette liked the name so. The Inspector continued, "I find it amusing to see it come back to haunt Valjean."

"Will you never give it a rest?" Monsieur Valjean moaned and the Inspector's smirk was an answer enough. "It was years ago, Javert."

The Inspector shrugged. The ease and familiarity with which he spoke of the subject picked Marius' interest and he felt the need to ask, "How do you know of this affair?" 

It was Monsieur Valjean who answered with a grin. "Why, the good inspector was Madeleine's chief of police, that's how."

That Marius hadn't known. While the elder residents of M-sur-M reveled in a chance to talk about affairs from decade ago, to muse in a voice tinged with sentiment over a time long gone by about a convict who was a better mayor and a better man than countless others who came before and after him, no one paid any mind to a former chief of police in their town. It was as if the man was a ghost: out of everyone's mind as soon as he left the stage. It was sad, in a way.

"I wasn't aware of that. You must have known each other a long time then."

The look the men exchanged now was more wistful than amused.

"There-- _is_ a lot of history between us, yes," Monsieur Valjean ceded. They were silent for a moment, sipping on their wine, before Monsieur Valjean continued, in a much more cheerful voice, "Some of that is even amusing."

The Inspector raised a brow, clearly dubious of that statement. "Pray tell what exactly, Valjean."

"Epiphany in 1821, Mademoiselle Hervé's _galette de Rois_. Your subordinate made a fine king for the day." The Inspector grunted irritably. Monsieur Valjean grinned, lifted a hand and counted on his fingers. "Letters from the schoolgirls. Madame Davy and her unending quest to seduce the good inspector."

"I was hardly her first target," the Inspector said and he tried to turn his head so that an angry blush marring his cheeks would go unnoticed. In vain. "You once broke into my rooms."

"That I did."

"But why?" Marius asked curiously. He did not know any of this; he was fairly sure Cosette did not either. It was strange, to see these two men so relaxed, clearly enjoying themselves, with flushed faces and glasses in their hands. It was a far cry from the stately father-in-law and somber policeman that Marius was used to seeing. He was intrigued. 

So they talked. Not all of the tales recounted were amusing. Some were funny until the moment they were no longer, some inspired pure dread. The Inspector talked about an instance when Monsieur Valjean's prized candlesticks were stolen and Monsieur Valjean grimaced at that; that was enough to tell Marius that there was more to this story, that there were parts of it that the Inspector knew nothing about. Marius made a note to himself to inquire about it in private.

"Has Cosette heard any of these stories?" he asked instead though he suspected he knew the answer to that. His suspicions were confirmed when Monsieur Valjean shook his head 'no'. "She would love to. Perhaps you would entertain her with them when you visit tomorrow?"

Or perhaps it was already tomorrow and the men would visit today, only later, when the sun was up and they were sober once more.

Monsieur Valjean laughed. "Perhaps we will, when we visit. Javert's memory is sharper than mine."

"No," the Inspector said quietly.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course it is! You remember even the most bizarre details of affairs from decades ago--"

"I meant the visit," the Inspector interrupted, quite rudely, in Marius' opinion. It was clear that he was beginning to be irritated. "I will not go with you."

"Why so?" Monsieur Valjean sounded surprised. He put his elbow on the table and leaned closer to his friend. "You always come with me. Cosette enjoys your company."

It was not precisely true, Marius thought. Cosette did not know the man well enough to enjoy his company — she only knew _of_ him, mostly from her father and those few scraps of information Marius could provide her with — and as for the former... That was even less true. Whenever Monsieur Valjean was invited to their house — either for a dinner or a simple get-together with the young couple — he came alone. Indeed, Cosette and Marius have met with Inspector Javert a handful of times over the past year — on Marius' birthday, for instance — but even then the man all but went out of his way to avoid them, Cosette in particular.

"Does she?" the Inspector asked sourly, voicing Marius' doubts as well. "Why would she?"

Monsieur Valjean answered with a query of his own. "Why would she not?"

The Inspector chuckled grimly. "You cannot honestly tell me," he said, "that in all these years you have never once used my name to scare her into obedience when she was being troubling. That would have been a waste of an opportunity."

Monsieur Valjean gaped at him mutely. "I did not," he said finally, sounding sincerely offended at the implication. "You surely know, I have always admired your dedication to your work. Even if I disagreed with some specifics."

This was beginning to sound like a tired debate, rehearsed so often that the arguments became like a second nature. Marius looked into his glass; it was miserably dry. Somehow they had drained the whole bottle of wine as well as the liqueur for it was empty when Marius reached for it. He shook it sadly.

"Then perhaps because I have murdered her mother."

Marius dropped the bottle. "What?" he asked weakly.

"You said so yourself," the Inspector carried on as if he hadn't heard Marius. And perhaps he hadn't; he had a faraway look in his eyes and he once again began absentmindedly tracing his forefinger over the edge of his glass. A small bitter smile twisted his thin lips. "So it must be true. I would not intrude upon your darling daughter's happiness then. Even I am not as cruel."

Monsieur Valjean looked as shocked as Marius felt; perhaps even more, for he opened his mouth a couple of times only to shut it voicelessly. "Javert, I--" he began saying, then stopped. "Javert, that was not--I didn't-- _That_ is not what I meant."

As a lawyer, Marius was taught to put much value into precise wording. He knew the difference between 'that is not what I meant' and 'I did not mean that'. The former implied that you were sure of the chosen word, only that the other party misunderstood it. The latter — that you chose the wrong word altogether. He wondered, briefly, if his father-in-law was aware of that distinction as well.

"Isn't it?"

" _No_ ," said Monsieur Valjean, stressing the word for added impact. "Fantine was sick, she had a weak heart. For all your other mistakes, this is not something that you are guilty--"

"Mistakes?" the Inspector hissed and the tone sent chills down Marius' spine. It was pure venom, it was filled with traps and phantom snakes ready to spring to attack any second. "I might have been less than merciful, some times, but I made no mistakes."

"You _were_ wrong about Fantine," Monsieur Valjean said, very matter-of-factly.

"Of course!" said the Inspector. "It all, in the end, comes to that, to that whore."

"Don't call her that," Monsieur Valjean warned. Marius found himself agreeing. It was one thing to know about the lengths his wife's mother had gone to ensure Cosette's well-being. It was entirely another to hear someone speak of it so carelessly, so thoughtlessly.

"I have the right to call her that," the Inspector snapped. "And I wasn't wrong about her. She attacked a citizen."

"Who had assaulted her first, you _know that_."

Marius cleared his throat. "Messieurs," he said, attempting to interrupt the men but they paid him no mind. They hardly noticed his presence. They were not hearing him anymore, they were not aware that he was still in the room with them, such was their focus on one another. They were wholly wrapped up in their argument, which — in Marius' opinion — was beginning to spiral out of control.

"And he would have been brought on charges as well, in due time. The law is just."

"Of _course_ it is." It was disconcerting, to hear such dark sarcasm in Monsieur Valjean's usually calm and collected voice. "Your law does not protect people! Pray tell me, how is nineteen years in the galleys a just punishment for stealing a loaf of bread?"

"It was five years," the Inspector said, "the other fourteen were your own damn fault."

" _Bread_ ," Monsieur Valjean repeated.

"It was not about bread! The object is of no importance here!" The Inspector hit his clenched fist on the table. That must have cleared his mind a little for he blinked and looked down at his hand, as if surprised he did that. He took a deep breath and continued, in a more measured tone, "The punishment was for theft, for breaking and entering at night. The law is there to punish the wrongdoing and to warn off potential offenders by setting an example."

To his horror, Marius found himself agreeing with the Inspector's words. Good God. It was infinitely easy to sympathise with his father-in-law when he had finally told him and Cosette his tale, when he told them about his sister and her starving children. It was easy to understand. At the same time, Marius was a lawyer; while he was supportive of the people whose cases he heard, while he oft thought that some of the laws were too harsh, too severe, he understood why they were needed. He could see logic in what the Inspector said.

"And what about Montreuil?" Monsieur Valjean asked and he seemed to have calmed down a tad as well. For some reason, Marius did not think it was a good thing; Monsieur Valjean's sudden composure seemed, to him at least, to speak of a cold, concealed fury. "Why have you pursued me like a dog when you knew, you _knew_ , that I was doing nothing but good? Why were you so intent on bringing me down?"

"You were a parole-breaker!" cried the Inspector and his voice carried a note of hysteria. It did not bode well. "A parole-breaker! Who fraudulently and under false pretenses acquired a position of power and authority! I am an officer of the law, what was I supposed to do? Just let it be?"

"Perhaps that would have been the best course of action," Monsieur Valjean answered coldly. "Safest for everyone involved."

They have had too much to drink, Marius decided. It was the fault of the alcohol, it was the alcohol that has turned his stately father-in-law into this cruel and angry beast and the somber Inspector into a thrashing creature with wild eyes. At the very same time he thought that his own glass was too empty, that he was not yet drunk enough to deal with this argument that was playing itself out in front of his eyes.

"The law is just," the Inspector repeated quietly and it was obvious that he was straining to regain composure. His voice cracked at the last word. "It is--cruel, sometimes, heartless--but if one tempers it with--with mercy... If those are reconciled--"

"Because it is such an easy thing to do," Monsieur Valjean sneered. "Such an easy thing that you sought the answer to how to do that at the bottom of the Seine."

It was as if suddenly winter had come, descended in haste upon this house and cast a spell on the room, such was a cold that had befallen. No amount of alcohol could have numbed them, any of them, to the effects that Monsieur Valjean's careless and needlesly cruel — for that is what they were, careless and needlessly cruel — words had. The man himself blinked, then blinked again, and then his eyes widened in astound as it dawned on him what he had just said, as if the meaning only occurred to him after he had said it.

"Javert, Javert, I--" he stuttered and stopped, unsure of what to say next.

For his part, the Inspector looked as if someone had flung a bucket of cold water at him, that is to say — he looked more sober than a minute ago, and much more sober than he was in reality. His twisted expression was one of anguish and anger in equal measures, and he gritted his teeth against saying something unwise, and he clenched his fist. He got up. He leaped off his chair and he stumbled, caught himself upright on the table. On slightly unsure and wobbly legs he crossed the room and exited it. He staggered in the corridor as well, if the faltering steps were any indication, but he managed to reach the door. He opened it and then closed them with such a force that a small painting rattled on the wall. He left the apartment.

That, too, reminded Marius of Grantaire.

Monsieur Valjean hung his head low, then brought his hands to it, ran them through his curly hair and finally settled on hiding his face in his palms. He spoke no more of anything, letting the chilling silence settle over them.

This was not how Marius imagined the evening to go. Perhaps it was his own fault, for bringing the bottles and insisting that they drink and drink and drink. Perhaps he ought to start accepting the social invitations extended by some of the other lawyers that he sometimes worked with. Perhaps he should attempt to make friends. Perhaps he should swear alcohol off completely.

He looked sadly at the empty bottle he had dropped to the floor a while ago, and a part of him longed for it to be full once more, so he could at least try to drown his newfound sorrows in it. He got up and went over to a cabinet standing in the corner of the room. Monsieur Valjean said nothing as Marius rummaged through the cabinet and emerged with a new and unopened bottle of wine, clutching it to his chest as if it were a rope and he were drowning. 

Marius cracked the seal open and poured himself a generous amount. He was beginning to feel deceptively sober and that was unacceptable, at least considering the current atmosphere in the house. He doubted there was sufficient amount of alcohol in the whole world to make this evening a good and joyous one once more, but he felt he should try — that much he owed to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably already realized that I don't drink. At all. I'm a teetotaler and even my exposure to drunk people was limited - one of two times in my life when I was in the presence of a drunk person was during this year's New Year's party. In order to research this story, I attended a few law department parties. That was--illuminating is one word. I went to five parties and concluded that:  
> \- lawyers and policemen (thanks, Mum) tend to gravitate towards topics relating to their respective jobs while drunk, mainly because it's a great entrance to an argument,  
> \- no matter what kind of a drunk you are, if you drink long enough, you're gonna end up depressed, depressing and snarky - that's just a fact.  
> Additionally, I also know that alcohol lowers your inhibitions; that was evidenced by my friend's boyfriend this past New Year. Normally a nice, jovial and cute person, the more he drank, the more aggresive and cruel he became.
> 
> That is what my several weeks long research on alcohol provided. Now, to explain myself: I've always read Valjean as a person who constantly keeps himself in check and who works really hard at being a Good Person. That's why I think he's an angry drunk - if only because the alcohol lowers his restraints and mental reactions to things done/said are slower. It's a textbook case of "do/say first, think later". Javert I see as a self-reflective drunk who completely loses his brain-to-mouth filter (even sober he has a problem with blabbing). Marius I see as a happy drunk with the worst of luck - sorry, Marius.
> 
> And finally, on the topic of beverages drunk. Wine contains about 16% of pure alcohol, which isn't a lot. Chartreuse, however, can contain as much as 55% of pure alcohol - which is more than standard vodka. A bottle of this liqueur and a bottle of wine would do you nicely.
> 
> Title is taken from John Milton's _Comus_. The full line says "one sip of this will bathe the drooping spirits in delight beyond the bliss of dreams". I thought it funny. Sorry again.


	2. strange things come out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tried not to think about how many bridges there were in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks go to **Fizyk** , who checked my stars-fu, and to **Abby** for being the enthusiastic hobbyist drunk that she is. :)

In the following hour, Marius managed to reach the bottom of a second bottle; when it happened, he shook the bottle over his glass, put it down with a crestfallen face and sighed miserably into his clasped hands. He cast a glance around, his eyes lingering upon the cabinet in the corner, before standing up and wobbling towards it. He came back clutching yet another bottle close to his chest, as if afraid that Valjean would seize him and take it from him. Valjean did not intend to do that.

Marius fell back on his chair and grabbed his glass, tried to pour more wine into it. His hands were shaking so much that he spilled the wine on the table, missing the glass entirely. He looked at the bottle and then at the glass, sighed once more and pushed the glass away, abandoning it in favour of drinking straight from the bottle. It was far from a well-behaved manner, but Marius was too far gone to pay it any mind and Valjean had no heart or patience to comment on it.

The second hour passed in silence, sporadically broken by Marius murmuring under his breath. The two hours and the quiet did wonders to Valjean: he felt much more sober, though he knew it was most likely his body's deception, and he thought much more clearly. Two hours have passed. Two hours have passed and Javert was still gone, and Valjean — with his mind cleared somewhat of the hazy cloud of alcohol and anger — was beginning to worry. Where had he gone? In the middle of the night? Surely, he should have come back by now.

And yet. A shudder passed his frame.

"Ah!" Marius said as he drew his lips off the bottle. He put it down and looked at Valjean. He waved a finger in Valjean's direction. "There. He is there in the rage of his love."

"Pardon?"

Marius reached for the bottle once more, wrapped his fingers around the neck tightly and clung to it, as if it was the only thing that kept him from collapsing on the table. Perhaps it was; Marius had not stopped indulging himself and although he was looking directly at Valjean, his eyes were somewhat glassy and unseeing.

Marius gestured the hand which was holding the bottle's neck, which resulted in wine spilling over his shirt. He did not notice and if he did, he did not react. "My love for Moina was great, my heart poured forth in joy. It started out such a lovely evening."

It did. Valjean clasped his hands and brought them to his lips. Marius was rambling. Perhaps he ought to put the boy to bed so he can sleep now, and in the morning he will bring Marius back to Cosette. But first--

"You were cruel," Marius said, dropping the honorific and the 'vous'. However, his voice was clear and steady; if Valjean had not been witness to him draining but all bottles he had in the house, he would have never guessed that Marius was anything but sober. "You made the Inspector leave and why, why, he is such a lovely person!"

Under any other circumstances it would have been funny to hear anyone — Marius Pontmercy of all people! — deem Javert a lovely person. As it was, it did not seem funny at all.

"That was--was not--was not nice," Marius carried on. "Enjolras used to be not nice to Grantaire, you know? He disliked Grantaire coming and drinking, and he was not nice. Why dost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul!"

"Marius," Valjean said as he began to rise from his chair. He spoke quietly, as he would to child, as he used to talk to Cosette when she was little and still skittish.

Marius shook his head. "Grantaire loved him, he didn't think anyone knew but we did, we knew. He loves me in the gloom of pride. And you do too, you think we don't know. But we do. Pride is a sin. Love isn't, though."

Valjean froze. Marius brought the bottle to his lips and drank, wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

"I love thee as my soul, I have slain one stately deer for thee. The things we do for love, we slay deer and join revolutions and fight at doomed barricades. Grantaire always thought it was doomed. And he died. They. They just--" Marius laughed and waved a hand once again, spilling more wine everywhere. Valjean sat back down. "What would you do? I do not know what I would do if Cosette died. Death is not romantic. Sometimes I see Musichetta, at times I visit her for she is what is left of my friends, and she looks haunted. Like brightness vanished from her life. Like her soul is missing. Like a part of her died too. What would you do, monsieur?"

"I do not know," Valjean said and that was perhaps the most honest thing he has uttered that evening. Marius nodded sympathetically and smiled. He brought the bottle up, tipped it in Valjean's direction. He brought it to his lips then and drank, at once losing interest in any further monologues. He did not look like he was in danger of passing out on the table anymore; the decidedly one-sided conversation reanimated him, it seemed.

Marius made no objections when Valjean got up and away from the table, took a coat and put it on. On the contrary, he grinned and sat upright, gestured again with the bottle. He said loudly, "Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests--"

The rest was drowned in the sound of the door closing behind Valjean and his footsteps echoing down the staircase of the building at Rue de l'Homme-Armé no. 7. When he finally stepped outside, he had to put up his collar against the gush of a cold wind. The days were still warm and the autumn was pleasant so it was easy to forget that it was the middle of October and the nights could — and oft did — get cold. Usually he did not have to worry about that for there was warm fire in the fireplace and a warm body in his bed. Tonight, though, tonight it was cold.

Valjean cast his eyes around, deciding on where to go. Not further into the city, he will go towards the river. The Prefecture building was there, perhaps Javert was outletting his frustration and anger on paperwork. Or perhaps he was simply walking, pacing, like he tended to when agitated and in thought. Valjean looked up. The sky was clear and starry tonight, the boulevard by the river would be a much better place for stargazing.

He did not allow the other nagging thought to enter his mind as he walked. And yet. There were many bridges in Paris. Not all of them close, all of them dangerous. But no. It did not matter, it had no significance.

Even from afar he could clearly see that there was no one standing on Pont-au-Change, neither on the parapet nor on the bridge itself. He breathed a sigh of relief and immediately caught himself doing that. Just because there was no one standing there _now_ does not mean there was no one standing there in the past two hours. He sped up his pace, eager to get to the river's embankment as quickly as possible.

When he got to the stairs leading to the lower parts of the boulevard, he stopped. Stopped, closed his eyes, opened them again. When the view did not change, he allowed himself to breathe. In and out, in and out, to stop a racing heart. He walked down the stairs as quietly as possible, made his way to the person sitting on the cobblestones with one knee bent and pressed to his chest, with an arm around it. He stopped again a few steps behind the man, took a deep breath. Watched as the man's back tenses when he sensed the presence then relaxes as he guessed Valjean's identity.

Valjean sat down on Javert's right. There was something poetically ironic about how they sat but there was no time for such musings.

"I worried," Valjean said.

"Am I supposed to be surprised?" Javert replied. "You always worry."

"More than usual," Valjean clarified. Then, "You've been gone for more than two hours."

That drew Javert's attention. "Is that so?" he asked. Valjean nodded. "I was not aware."

When it became apparent that Javert was not planning on saying anything more, Valjean leaned back and tipped his head to look up. The night was truly beautiful with the stars bright and visible against the dark blue sky. Little wonder that Javert lost his grip on the passing time. If Valjean could paint the constellations in his mind the way he did, he would forget himself as well.

"You were wrong," Javert said flatly. "I might have been wrong, but you, you were--" He took a breath. "You were cruel."

Valjean sat back up and looked at Javert, and thought that he must look remorseful because Javert grimaced. "I know," he said. "I know. I am sorry."

"You were wrong about that," Javert stressed, "but maybe not about--before. Maybe you were right. Maybe I am--"

Valjean knew what was going to be said even before Javert finished speaking. "No, no, of course not--"

"--a murderer." Javert looked at him, puzzled, surprised at being contradicted mid-word. Surprised was good, however. Surprised meant pulled from introspection, at least temporarily. Javert self-reflective was a danger, mostly to himself.

" _No_ ," Valjean repeated and fixed Javert with a stern, authoritative glare, the kind he sometimes used in Montreuil. Its effect was immediate — Javert swallowed and nodded. Obedient. Obedient was also good. "I was wrong, on both accounts. I was angry. I am sorry."

"That was not just 'angry'," Javert said. "I have seen you angry before."

He was right, of course. Both times, it was a brief moment of white-cold fury, composed and calculated and cruel, aimed to hurt. Valjean angry they could handle, both of them. But that--that scared even Valjean.

"Talking about the past," Valjean said, trying to slightly alter the topic, make it safer, "reminded me of things I would rather forget. Of a man I am trying hard not to be."

"But I remind you," said Javert, and that dangerous melancholic note was back in his voice.

"You remind me of great many things," Valjean said with a smile. "Not all of them are bad."

Javert looked up to the sky and rolled his eyes with a snort, but a small smile tugged at his lips and Valjean counted that as a victory. He tipped his head back once more.

"It's a beautiful night," he commented. Beside him, Javert looked up as well.

"It is," Javert agreed. "The sky is clearer than usual. The weather will change soon, it will grow colder still."

"Tell me about the stars."

Javert raised a brow. "Why?" he asked dismissively. Valjean shrugged. "No. Why now? You don't have to feign an interest to placate me. I am not jumping, see?"

"No, tell me. I wish to know." Valjean pointed at Vega far on Javert's left. "That is the North Star, is it not?"

The look given him by Javert was a curious mixture of exasperation and irritation, with an undercurrent of fondness. Javert knew he was being played. Valjean smiled and Javert shook his head, looked at the star that Valjean had pointed at. He knew he was being played, yet he decided to humour Valjean.

"That's Vega," he said in a tone that made it clear that he knew Valjean mistakenly identified it on purpose. "The brightest star in the Lyra constellation. The myth says that after a heartbroken Orpheus was killed, Zeus placed his prized instrument in the skies."

While Valjean did have some knowledge of astronomy and he could point and name some of the stars, he never much cared for the mythos behind them. Neither did Cosette, for that matter, and thus they never searched for those stories. It was new. With Javert, there was always something new, some layer to be revealed, something to be discovered. He carried himself, his knowledge, opinions, like a mystery, a secret buried with no map to help find it.

"Why was he heartbroken?"

"His wife died," Javert said. "He grieved. He went to the underworld to retrieve her soul but he failed. Thus he lost her once more."

"Oh." He did not like this one. He looked over at Javert. He narrowed his eyes when he saw a tremor go through the man's body. And then another. "You're shivering."

"I'm cold," Javert said matter-of-factly, like it was the most natural thing, to be cold while sitting on a river's embankment on a mid-October night. Valjean surveyed the man's clothing — dark woolen trousers which looked warm enough, and a thin white shirt which most certainly did not — and decided that, in this case, it was a most natural thing to be cold.

"Why didn't you take your coat?"

Javert glared at him at that question, as if Valjean was a dim-witted child. It was a look, Valjean noticed with mixed feelings on the matter, that Javert often gifted Marius with. "I wasn't cold when I left," he said and Valjean could all but hear the implication of that statement. _I was too distracted to feel cold._ Or, worse yet, _I was in too much of a hurry to leave to look for my coat._

Valjean hastened to unbutton his own overcoat and put it around Javert's shoulders. Javert tried to protest, spluttering out excuses and telling Valjean to stop being ridiculous, but those protests fell on deaf ears.

Javert sighed and shook his head almost sadly, but he wrapped the coat tighter around himself and Valjean beamed. "The North Star is over there," Javert pointed at a less bright star instead of commenting, a one shining a bit to the east, "in Ursa Minor."

"Is there a story to this?"

"There is a story to everything." Javert groaned when it dawned on him that Valjean was waiting for him to elaborate. "Oh, for--A man named Arcas was turned into a bear by Zeus. Are you satisfied now?"

"Quite." He would ask why the man was turned into a bear some later time. For now he was content to simply allow Javert to choose which stars he tells him about and in what detail.

A great hero Perseus was joint in the skies by his winged steed Pegasus. They attempted to rescue princess Andromeda, who chained awaited death. From afar, Andromeda's mother Cassiopeia and father Cepheus watched. And then, in the east, far on the horizon a hunter Orion was rising to begin his struggle against a bull — in the winter, Javert had said, he would be joined by his two dogs and with their arrival the brightest star would become visible. Valjean wondered if their garden would provide for a good view of the sky. He wondered if maybe he should buy a telescope. That would make a good present. Javert would flush a bright red, of course, and stutter and claim that he does not need or want it — for he was unaccustomed to giving as well as receiving gifts — but he would, ultimately, enjoy it and that was all that mattered. He would smile. Valjean loved to see him smile.

"Astrology puts much value into Algol," Javert said. Valjean cocked his head to the side. At first sight Javert looked like he always did, focused and composed, passionate in his own way. But when one knew what to look for, it became obvious just how much the man was enjoying himself, just how much almost childlike joy he was keeping barely under the surface. The mirth lightened up his eyes, emphasized the specks of green among the blue.

"'Demon Star', that's what my mother--" Javert trailed off. He frowned, his eyes narrowed when confronted with Valjean's smile and fond gaze. "You are not paying attention."

"I am," Valjean said just be contradictory.

"You are most certainly not. And how can you be, when you keep--staring at--" Javert gritted his teeth and pointed skyward. "You wanted me to tell you about the stars. Well. The stars are up there."

"I find myself disagreeing with that," teased Valjean and, with some measure of satisfaction, watched a blush work its way up Javert's cheeks. Despite a clearly self-conscious moment, the man did not drop Valjean's gaze, did not deflect and hide. He did not do that, not anymore.

Javert could blush in such a number of ways. He coloured differently depending on the source of his embarrassment; a faint pink shade when he was paid a compliment he did not know how to react to — which was always for the man was never comfortable when praised on his work or, God forbid, looks — but deep red when flushed in humiliation and anger. Right now his face had a rosy tinge. Embarrassed but secretly pleased. Valjean could spend the rest of his life deciphering every nuance and grimace, trying to learn to read the variety of Javert's subtle expressions. 

He would not mind that in the slightest.

"And now it is you who is shivering," Javert noted and sounded almost smug. He moved to shrug off Valjean's coat when Valjean's hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Don't," Valjean murmured and rose. "We should go home." He extended a hand towards Javert, a hand which Javert eyed unimpressed. "Will you go home with me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice," Valjean said, "though I wish you would say 'yes'."

"Then I will, I suppose," sighed Javert. He grabbed Valjean's hand and allowed to be pulled up. "I'm saying 'yes'."

Javert tried to drop Valjean's hand, to shake it off, but Valjean did not allow for that. On the contrary, he gripped Javert's tighter, slid it firmer into his grasp, and entwined their fingers. They walked toward Rue de l'Homme-Armé tentatively, tense, ready to spring apart should they see anyone approach, but the streets were blessedly empty. The city was still sound asleep around them, the hour not yet late enough for it to crawl from its slumber.

Back in the house, in the hallway, Valjean divested Javert of the coat and let it fall to the floor, his hands occupied with framing Javert's face, tilting it up for a kiss.

Javert brought his hands up and tried to push him away. "And what if your dolt of a son-in-law sees us?" he hissed.

"Then let him see." Valjean nibbed at Javert's lower lip, sucked it. It became pleasantly red. Valjean ran a thumb across it, then sighed. "I should see what has become of him in my absence."

"If we are lucky, maybe he got alcohol poisoning," Javert said. Valjean frowned and then laughed when he saw a spark of something close to mischief in Javert's eyes. In here, in the dim hallway, Javert's eyes seemed to have the colour of the night's sky.

Marius was half-lying on the table when Valjean entered the drawing room; he was snoring lightly and was hugging an empty bottle. Valjean sighed and came closer to the sleeping young man, wrestled the bottle out of his grasp and threw his arm around his own shoulders. Javert came up to help; together, they managed to carry Marius to the spare bedroom and put him on the bed.

"He will be miserable in the morning," Javert divined.

"We all will be miserable in the morning," Valjean corrected. They will all pay for their indulgence.

Javert gave him a leveled look and said, "Come to bed."

He did. They did nothing more than to kiss and hold each other, and Valjean painted his apologies on Javert's skin with nibs and kisses until the man smacked him on the head and told him to stop.

"I love you," Valjean murmured much later into Javert's soft hair. Javert hummed in response. "Would it kill you to say it?"

"I do not know," Javert replied. He placed a lazy kiss on Valjean's collarbone. "I wouldn't want to try."

~***~

Much, much later a sudden sting of cold woke him briefly, cold of a thin metal band on Javert's finger, on a hand he put over Valjean's heart.

"You are the only man I ever said 'yes' to," Javert murmured in that melancholic tone from earlier that Valjean did not like. There was something in that sentence that caught his attention and Valjean promised himself to ask about it in the morning.

But then the morning came and he developed a splitting headache, and there was not a drop of alcohol in the whole house, and Marius was moaning like a dying man and there was so much to do, so many explanations to make to Cosette, and he needed to go and see his granddaughter, so he forgot that there was anything to ask about in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes here:  
> \- Marius is quoting James Macpherson; an acquintance of mine once started completely randomly quoting Shakespeare when talking while drunk - I thought it would be amusing to give Marius such a quirk. And why Macpherson? Well, Ossianic poetry was influential in Romanticism, but I made my choice mostly because Napoleon was a big fan of Macpherson's work;  
> \- I've never stargazed and all my knowledge comes from my old and giant as fuck atlas of astronomy; I tried to describe autumn sky in the Northern hemisphere as accurately as I could; a physicist told me that I'm cleared to post as I didn't make extremely awful mistakes;  
> \- drunks and hobbies; as my experience with drunk people is limited, I was forced to rely on what I observed last year at uni. One of my roommates loved to drink; I've heard her drunk!talk quite often but we never interacted when she was drunk (hung-over is another matter). And then one day, around 3am, she banged on my door and asked if I wanted to play Xbox with her. I've never used Xbox in my life and I told her so, and she decided to introduce me to her hobby. It was a most illuminating morning
> 
> Eh, I hope you enjoyed? This is yet another fluffy piece from me. I've never written so much fluff before in my life. I feel like I need to go and kill someone before I go out of practice.


End file.
